


War Prize

by Captain_Kiri_Storm



Category: The Rat Patrol
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Desert, Dietrich is So Done, I play loose with canon, M/M, Misuse of Military Rank, Non-Sexual Slavery, Not Canon Compliant, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Starvation, Troy Whump, aftermath of abuse, not historically accurate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:29:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 17,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27889063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Kiri_Storm/pseuds/Captain_Kiri_Storm
Summary: Hauptmann Hans Dietrich isn't a cruel man, nor is he a fool.The Rat Patrol has been a thorn in his side for years. When their leader was captured and dragged off to God knows where, Dietrich poured himself a glass of wine and bought a local pastry to celebrate. He didn't want to think about the stories that he's heard coming out of the Channel Isles or some of the whispers he's heard in the bars. Dietrich is a soldier first, a civilian never, and he's good at turning parts of himself off.Until part of a work detail collapses at his feet and Dietrich gets a blast from the past.He can't ignore what's happening now. Nor can a single man hope to change the system. What he can do, though, is try to make the best of a bad situation. If the other ranking officers can keep pets, so will he. The only difference is Dietrich's is American instead of Russian.**FORMERLY KNOWN AS "THE CAPTAIN'S PET" BUT I DECIDED TO CHANGE THE NAME BECAUSE REASONS**
Relationships: Hans Dietrich & Sam Troy, Hans Dietrich/Sam Troy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

If there was one thing about North Africa that Hauptmann Hans Dietrich hated the most, it was the heat. This heat didn't have the grace to be a warm, wet heat that wrapped around the body like a warm, wet blanket or a lover. No, this heat was hot and dry and choking. The sand was a close second. It was gritty and annoying and the sirocco whipped it up into a stinging, biting spray. It was, if you asked Dietrich, the second most miserable about Libya. The third most annoying thing had been knocked out two years ago by a Sergeant Jonas Noffke in the form of the capture of Sergeant Sam Troy. Dietrich didn't know what had happened to the rest of them and he honestly did not care. He just knew that those four were out of his hair for good.

Dietrich tapped tapped his fingers against his holster, silently debating what he was going to do. Personally, he didn't enjoy using civilians to load ammunition trains, but orders were orders and the last thing he needed to do was anger his commanding officers. His repeated tangles with the Rat Patrol had nearly gotten him shot or sent to the Eastern Front and several of the Majors were _looking_ for an excuse to get rid of him. Dietrich had, personally, arranged for the replacement of a few of them, but he could do so much before things started to get suspicious. As it sat, he had an uneasy peace with the remaining two - he would not report their trade in black market items and they would not report the number of times he was defeated.

Some of the privates barked something at a long line of straggling prisoners. None of these men looked like they were going to put up a fight - several of them looked like they were going to drop dead in the next ten minutes - yet the guards still carried sub-machine guns and batons. Dietrich thought it was overkill. These men were too tired and sick to revolt and the desert would kill them quickly if they tried to escape. Indeed, the camp they were being walked too didn't bother with barbed wire. Miles and miles of empty, sun blasted land stretched around it. Anyone foolish enough to run away would die a horrible death. After the first few tries and the resulting agonized deaths, no one tried it again.

Dietrich supposed that being eaten by a vulture wasn't the best way to go.

One of the men collapsed to the ground with a horrible cry. Dietrich jerked his head up and ambled over. The men shied away from him, likely intimidated by his uniform and the way he was used to the blistering hot heat. Dietrich ignored them. The man on the ground was bleeding through his thin, torn uniform and he seemed oddly familiar. The guards - young men who couldn't have been more than privates - shifted around him and gripped their rifles. Dietrich ignored them. He eased the man over with his shoe, trying to place the thin, fragile features. The man's face was marred by bruises and filth, but there was still something familiar about him.

"Is this man bothering you?" the first one asked. He kicked the down man savagely. "Get up! Get up you American filth!"

The man just groaned in response and opened brilliant blue eyes.

Dietrich grabbed the man's arm. "Don't kick him, you fool! He's not bothering me, I'm just trying to figure out who he is. If you kill him, I will be most displeased and you _will_ be reported to the General for interfering with me!" He turned back to the man, searching for the man's dog tags. "However, if you wish to redeem yourself, you might tell me where this man was captured or where he came from."

"That's easy," the second one replied. "These were all used up on the Isle of Jersey. They just sent them down here to feed the vultures, I guess. They're as weak as water and a waste of food and water."

"Wasting a man is both counterproductive and expensive," Dietrich murmured. "Prisoners and their labor are a resource that we should exploit wisely instead of destroying." He sighed and brushed the man's filthy hair out of his face. "Water, please. I want to get him functional and on his feet so we can use him another day. If he dies now, we will have wasted any labor he might have given us later on."

"Alright," the first one complained. "We get it. We're not going to kill him even though he is an American pig."

Dietrich rolled his eyes and tipped a little water in the wounded man's lap. The man grabbed at him, his eyes unfocused, and he mumbled something in a language that sounded like Arabic. Dietrich paused. That was unusual. Prisoners coming from Jersey tended to be captured in Europe and very few men there could speak Arabic there. That likely meant that this man had been captured in North Africa. Dietrich swore under his breath as he peeled the man's filthy hands off of his arm. He had a feeling he knew who this man was, but he didn't want to believe it. There were many times when Dietrich could have killed Sergeant Sam Troy, but he hadn't. That was going to bite him in the ass now.

He looked up at the two men. "One of you get your commanding officer. This man needs shade and rest if he's going to survive. And I want him to _survive_ , you do understand." He grabbed Troy's arms and started dragging him back towards a brightly colored awning. "Go quickly now! I have a business matter with that man that I want to discuss."

The second one took off like a scared rabbit. Dietrich watched as the first rounded up his men roughly and marched them through the winding city streets. Those men were going to die soon, but there was nothing Dietrich could do. He simply sat beside the one man he could save and tried to formulate an argument. He wouldn't be the first officer to keep a "pet" - a polite term for a man or woman kept for sexual purposes - but he had to admit that it was highly unusual to pick such a man out of a prisoner line up. Dietrich dribbled a little more water into Troy's mouth as he waited. The man seemed to be greedy with it - water had to be rationed - but Dietrich only allowed him a little.

He glanced down at the fragile, sweating man. "You are going to be the death of me, you know that? I thought I was rid of you, but apparently I was not. I hope now that you're able to listen to some sense, otherwise we are both going to die. _Painfully_."


	2. Chapter 2

Thirst was fucking awful. No matter how many stones you sucked on or the water you dug out of the dirty, sandy ground, you never quenched the thirst that threatened to drag you into its toxic embrace and never let go. Troy wanted nothing more than to sink into a pool of cold, clear water and drink until his belly burst. Maybe then it wouldn't hurt to take a piss and what did come out wouldn't be stinking and yellow. Troy ached all over, but there was something warm around him and a little bit of water splashing into his face. He licked it up greedily, not daring to open his eyes. For all he knew, there was a camel standing over him and he didn't want to see what he was drinking.

Someone stroked his face. "I never thought I was going to see you again, you know. I thought you were dead, that they had killed you."

"I'm pretty tough," Troy managed. He rested against the other man and touched what had to be some kind of uniform. "Do I know you? You sound real familiar, but I think I'm sun blind for real this time."

"I'm sorry." The man touched his hair again and straightened up. "Hauptmann...?"

"Hauptmann Axel Mensing," the man drawled. He must have crossed his arms and then nudged Troy's head with his boot. "This one's about used up. You would be better served getting one of the fresh prisoners and breaking him in yourself, if you're into men." The man paused. "This one was probably touched by every man on Jersey. A man of your station should have something fresh, something unspoiled, something _pure_. Not this half dead used up American mutt!"

Troy tuned them out after that. The ground bit at his body, but he didn't mind. He was cold all the time now, but that was probably because he hadn't eaten anything for the past few days. He had water, of course. He could live on water all he wanted and scavenge food from the trashcans if he had too. Jersey had been utter hell. Cold, raining all the time, and he was forced to dig in the mud all the time. The Nazis were looking for gold, of course, and all the Viking silver that they were sure lay beneath the rich, muddy soil. The farm work had been backbreaking. Mules had replaced all heavy machinery and rocks were the best crop on that hell island. Troy had lost his faith there, along with much of his spirit.

Fighting hurt too much. The krauts hadn't bothered with a fence there after the locals were all killed off and the island was surrounded by miles of harsh, wild sea. They hadn't needed a fence to keep the prisoners in check. The sea had done that. If they didn't come back in for the role call, the doors to the barns were locked and the prisoners were left to freeze to death. It had happened a few times and it was probably the favored method of suicide among the hopeless there. Troy hadn't been that low, but he could understand. Freezing to death was much better than dying of heatstroke. Troy didn't want to die, but it was starting to look like a really good option.

Someone picked him up and started carrying him through the little market. Troy heard enough to know that he would have loved the place. The air was filled with spices, rich and thick, and the smell of roasted meats and curries. Flat bread, hot and soft, that would just melt in a man's mouth. Sweet coffee or the spicy, milky tea that the locals loved. Raisin bread, honey, everything that a man could get fat on. Troy smelled meat cooking in its own grease and spices and he would have given anything to have just a little _piece_ of that treat. Troy wasn't a big man - he was a little short - but he had to eat and being fed nothing but wheat gruel and a few leeks wasn't enough to feed a grown, active man.

The man laid him down on a bed. "I'm going to leave you for a little bit. Please don't try to leave this room. Some of my comrades keep dogs and those animals are known to kill prisoners."

Troy sprawled back against the bed and raised his hand. "Do I know you?"

"You should." The man brushed back his hair. "You should know me quite well, I would think. We've spent a good time together, including a trek across the Sahara. I would think that you would know my name. I know yours. Sergeant Samuel Troy. Leader of the Rat Patrol, pain in my ass, and captured by a man I later shot for harassing the locals."

"Dietrich?" Troy softly asked. "You didn't give me something to make me blind, right?"

"No, I'm afraid this is sun blindness coupled with dehydration and malnutrition." Dietrich sighed and brushed Troy's hair out of his face. "I wish I could stay with you, but I do have a staff meeting and these sheets were going to be burned anyways, so if you have lice, it won't harm anything. Fleas, unfortunately, are a fact of life in this cursed country, so I won't be rid of those until I return home." He sighed softly. "Gertrude will be along in a little bit to give you a wash, a shave, and a little food. Don't cause trouble for her."

Troy waved him off and reached for a hat to pull over his useless eyes. That was long gone, though, and he just sat back, enjoying being cradled by the soft sheepskin. He was ready to drift off to sleep when someone grabbed at his hand and tugged. Troy struggled to his feet. He had no idea what the woman was saying, but she dragged him towards what had to be a bathroom and he stumbled over the cold tile. He wanted to know where he was and he wished he could understand what this woman was telling him. She tugged at his clothes. He wobbled around, trying to find his balance, as the woman quickly stripped him down. Some of his uniform ripped.

"Hey!" Troy yelped. "That's the only clothes I have!"

He had the feeling that she didn't understand him and he was too tired to fuss too much. The woman guided him towards what he thought was a wooden tub. He wished he could see what he was getting into, but he liked the way the warm water curled around his body. It had been the longest time since he had had a hot bath. He ignored the way the woman grabbed at him or the way she talked to him in German. He was too tired right now to translate and the warmth threatened to overwhelm him. Usually, he washed himself off in a creek with a sliver of soap. This was nice. He had a feeling that he was in officer country, but he didn't care. He was warm, he was getting clean, and he had the feeling that Dietrich wasn't going to be a dick.

Now if only he had a jeep...


	3. Chapter 3

Dietrich ignored most of the staff meeting. It was the same old twaddle that he usually dealt with and he had heard every bit of it a thousand times over. It was the same propaganda filled drivel that made the brass feel good about their fuckups and got good men killed. Dietrich had been on the receiving end of those a few times. It had cost him good men and enough armor to outfit a large division. Dietrich picked up a few things for his pet in the camp mess - mostly chicken soup and a bread roll, along with sweet, milky coffee. The coffee was mostly milk and honey, but it would make Troy feel better after he had eaten and drank some. Dietrich hoped that Gertrude had given Troy the silk pajamas instead of the rough cotton ones.

He knocked before he entered his quarters. "Gertrude? Have you cared for our guest?"

An older woman with carefully coifed brown hair stared at him in the hall. "Do you honestly think that I would have ignored that filthy, bug riddled, _insolent_ , ignorant American who puts his feet all over your bedspread and acts like I'm going to strike him at any second?"

"Forget I asked." Dietrich pushes his way into the bedroom and cleared his throat. "So I heard you met Gertrude."

"She a member of the SS?" Troy weakly asked. He looked up at Dietrich and scowled. "I've gotten gentler delousings than what she calls a bath! And I thought she was gonna cut off my ear or something. That woman's dangerous with a pair of scissors, you know? What's that smell, by the way? I'm not much for German food, but that actually smells like I would enjoy eating it."

Dietrich steadied Troy's hands and stroked Troy's brutally short hair. He had been shaved and Gertrude had done her usual decent job. Dietrich tried to pay him little mind as he went through his own paperwork. It was mind numbing work. The coffee was for both of them to share. What Troy didn't know wouldn't hurt him and, besides, the tea tasted awful. Dietrich enjoyed a good cup of English tea and American cigarettes, not that he could get those anymore. Troy was still rationed two cigarettes a day, which Dietrich suspected weren't going to be enough when the reality of his situation hit home, and it wasn't wise to make a man skip. That said, Dietrich didn't want him to smoke in bed.

"If you wish to smoke, you'll have to go to the courtyard," Dietrich murmured. He nuzzled over that neck, something that he had wanted to do for so long, and stroked the silk clothing. "I've always known that proper clothing can make a man feel like he's human again. How do you feel, Troy?"

"Like shit," Troy dryly said. "I'm sitting on my ass over here and my boys are being worked to death on the other side of the compound."

"There is something you should know about this camp," Dietrich softly replied. "You shouldn't upset yourself over things you couldn't possibly hope to change. The way your men are treated is horrid, but there is nothing I could do to change it." He pressed the lightest kiss to Troy's neck. "What you should focus on is getting healthy. Putting some weight on those bones of yours and getting your eyes back. You'll need to eat, of course, and get better." He stroked Troy's side and squeezed one thin, rough hand. "I've been wanting to have a long time with you ever since we met in that little town."

"What are you doing?" Troy asked. He froze and gestured with his hand. "What - what are you doing?!"

"Touching you," Dietrich murmured. He brushed through the man's hair and kissed him more. "You're going to have to get used to it, I'm afraid. The only way I can keep you out of that camp is to make you my pet - my kept man, if you will." He smiled and nipped a kiss into that suntanned skin. "Unfortunately, we have to make this thing look as real as I can. That means that you must look like you've been properly debauched, though I would never touch you in such a way that you wouldn't want." He kissed Troy deeper and nuzzled him, noting that the man slowly started to relax. "You need to rest, Sergeant. I would rather that you do it in my bed instead of with some of the others."

Troy swallowed thickly. "You know this thing is frowned upon in America, right?"

"And here it is tacitly ignored if one happens to be in my position," Dietrich replied. He didn't try to push things too fast. "I would like to keep you close, Troy."

"Would that include finding my hat?" Troy slowly asked. "I would like that back, you know. They kinda took it when I was captured and I have no idea where it wound up. Probably in some trash heap, knowing those assholes." Then he paused and sighed softly. "About your offer... well, I don't have much choice, do I? After all, you're kinda the guy that's keeping me from getting tossed back into that hell hole."

"That's a wise choice," Dietrich softly said. He pressed another kiss to the man's cheek and watched as he squirmed a little bit. "It would be incredibly wise for you to strongly consider my offer and then give into my not so awful demands." He smiled softly and stroked Troy's cheek. "I would like to stay with you, perhaps learn to do my paperwork when you're sighted, and not complain too much when I want to hold you. That night in the desert was, to be honest, one of the more eye opening experiences of my life. Knowing that you would be more loyal to me than my own men - Sergeant, can you blame me for wanting to keep that close to me? To have it?"

"Nope and you're holding me too tight," Troy grumbled. He squirmed around and situated his bony body against the other man. "This is better, though. Just... look, I'll do what you want me too, just don't squeeze me so much, okay? It really doesn't feel that great."

Dietrich obliged the man. Troy had already been through so much and the last thing Dietrich needed to do was make things even worse for him. Troy's body was a fragile thing, barely skin draped over bones, and the man seemed to be running on spite. As soon as he realized he was safe, Troy started to drop off to sleep. He snuggled into the blankets, fending off the cold that soon bit into the room. Dietrich started and stoked the fire before turning back towards the door. Troy and Gertrude were going to have to get along. First impressions were always everything and Troy had certainly upset her with his insolence. Dietrich frowned before glancing back to the sleeping man.

He was going to have to watch Troy. An escape attempt - or an actual escape - could kill them both.


	4. Chapter 4

Troy released a breath that he didn't know he was holding when Dietrich decided to go to sleep. He had made a few passes at women, intended to get shot down, and just brushed off his lack of attraction as him being a military man. He had things to do, places to be, and armor to blow up. When he was on Jersey, he wasn't interested in trying to have sex with the other men. There were no women and even the manliest of men got sexually frustrated enough to try sex with other men. Sometimes, that sex was rape, but other times it was about as consensual as it got. Troy had been curious, but he'd never tried to act on those urges. Now he was afraid that he might not have a choice.

Being blind was awful. He was completely, totally, and utterly dependent on Dietrich and his bitch of a housekeeper. If Troy needed to use the toilet or get a drink of water, he was slap out of luck. He was going to get thirsty and stay thirsty and there was nothing he could do about it. Or so they wanted him to think. Troy cursed under his breath as he struggled up. He ran his hands over the headboard and the nightstand, looking for a water jug. Every hotel and inn he had used in this godforsaken desert had had a jug of water nearby. Dietrich liked his water. He liked to bathe, going by how soft and supple his skin was, and apparently he liked to drink it, too. Going by the smell, he drank it with mint and lemon.

He found a plain jug and hand his hands over the cool surface. There was what felt like a glass cup beside it, so Troy managed to pour himself a little water without slopping it all over the place. It took a steady hand, something that he had learned during his time in the desert. Water was more valuable than gold in these parts. Even water that was warm and tasted stale. Troy lowered himself into a leather chair heavily and took his time with the water. It felt good, sliding through his throat like liquid silk. He squirmed some as the silk draped over his body and pooled in interesting places. Troy hated these things. Dietrich seemed to like them, so he had to deal with it. Just like he had to deal with everything else in his life.

Dietrich cleared his throat when he shifted around on the bed. "What exactly are you doing?"

"I got thirsty," Troy replied. He turned his head, trying to figure out where the man was. "You know, we playacted like I was blind once. Tied a blindfold around my eyes, gave me a cane, and everything. The only thing we didn't do was give me a seeing eye dog. We were gonna steal some diamonds from the krauts - they were gonna buy armor with it and we didn't want that to happen."

"I remember that one," Dietrich replied. He stood and helped Troy back to the bed. "I also remembered the time I had to find you. During the sandstorm, when that crazy man wanted to sell you to the Arabs like you were a mule. He offered you to all of my brass, you know. Dangled you right over our noses like you were a carrot. Some of them wanted to give you to Beckman again or they wanted to take you apart themselves. They hated you. They're going to want me to bring you in hand, you know, and I don't know if I can do it."

Troy shrugged. He settled himself against the too soft bed, wincing as his bones complained. He hated feeling helpless. The first time he had been blinded, he had nearly panicked. Troy had thought that his life was over, that he was going to be taken out of the action for good. Of course, it had all been a ploy to get the location of his men out of him. It had taken him a long time to get over that one and for the longest time, he had jumped when people talked to him. Of course, the times he'd been beaten by the Gestapo hadn't helped, either. Beckman had wanted to torture him to death the first time he'd been captured and apparently he had spread the story around when Troy started to make waves.

"Can I have a smoke?" Troy suddenly asked. He looked up and cocked his head. "It's been a long time. I didn't get any yesterday and only one the day before that, so I need 'em something fierce. Please, Dietrich?"

He wasn't playing. Even the fucking Nazis believed in letting a man smoke if he needed it and he knew that Dietrich smoked. He had smelled it on the man's clothes and knew the man carried at least one pack on him. Matches, too. Troy hated German cigarettes, but he was willing to take anything right now. Troy turned his head, wishing he could see the man. He heard Dietrich turn the light on and then gentle hands guided him out to a sun warmed courtyard. The air was cooler now, turning cold, but the stone was warm under his feet. Dietrich lit a cigarette and helped Troy hold it. It took him a few tries to find his mouth and then he allowed himself to lose himself in the pleasure.

"You haven't had one of these in a long time," Dietrich murmured. "They really don't give you these, do they?"

"They're shit and they taste awful," Troy complained. He closed his useless eyes and sighed. "I want to go home, Dietrich, but I don't know if that's gonna happen anytime soon. If you have overrun Europe all the way to the Channel, there's no hope for us, is there? Me going home?"

He didn't want to hear the answer. Troy had kept himself alive out of pure spite and it was that spite keeping him running right now. He wanted to yell at Dietrich, to challenge him, to make him see what was going on, but he knew there was no real way for him to do that. He had his smokes. He had a guard that wasn't going to hurt him. Troy was pretty sure that the man wasn't going to keep him blind. Dietrich had never done things like that to him, not even when common sense would have said to kill him. As far as jails went, this one was pretty nice. He had a place to curl up and sleep, water to drink, and clothes to wear. Dietrich even gave him decent smokes.

"I wish that I could let you go," Dietrich finally said. "But I'm being forced to work with the SS. The man that I bought you from is SS - he's going to expect me to bring you to heel like he brought his own poor soul to heel. That one can sing. He's pretty and I've been told that he has the most beautiful voice the world has ever seen. He calls the poor man Nightingale."

"Poor devil." Troy looked around and gestured for what he thought was the kitchen area. "Do you have anything stronger to drink? Coffee, tea, and water are great, but I need to take the edge off." He sighed and kicked the bed frame. "I'll even take a warm English beer, even though that tastes like dog piss. Not that I would know what dog piss tastes like. I've been thirsty, but not that thirsty. Have I been tempted? Yes. Would I have actually drank something like that? No, I am not going to actually do something that stupid."

"I did not ask and I did not want to know," Dietrich finally said. He kissed the man gently and sighed softly. "You need to come to bed Sergeant. You're very tired and you're babbling. Just sleep."

Sleep. Like that was going to happen. Troy lay down, but he had a hard time closing his eyes. He wanted to sleep, but when you were blind... Well, it made sleep take a longer time to come. Troy tossed and turned for a few minutes, kicking at anything he could reach. He wanted to sleep, actually sleep like he needed too, but he just didn't have the energy to do so. Troy had heard of being too tired to sleep, but it was new to him and he fucking hated it. A part of him hated Dietrich, even though he knew that was foolish. Dietrich was the one thing keeping him from dying in a hot, dry, reeking barn. Besides, when he could see, there was going to be very little pinning him down.

He touched Dietrich's shoulder, wishing there was a way he could take this man with him.


	5. Chapter 5

Dietrich woke up first and shook Troy's shoulder. "Sergeant! Wake up!"

"Five more minutes, please," Troy whined. He slapped Dietrich's hands away. "Go ' _way_! It's fuck o'clock in the morning and colder than a witch's tit and I don't wanna get up."

"I was just going to ask if you could see," Dietrich replied. He dodged the thrown pillow and sighed. "I take it that you're feeling better. That's good. If you can see, you can start by shining my boots while I do paperwork. I'll have to teach you to read and write German to do the more boring paperwork." He sat up and swung his legs over the bed. "Let me see your eyes, Sergeant."

"What? Are you going to compliment them or something?" Troy grumbled. He obeyed, though, and made an effort to at least sit up. "You like the color, huh? You're gonna talk about how the moonlight makes them glitter or something? Or are you gonna say that they're camel shit brown and you can't wait to make 'em black and blue?"

Dietrich let him ramble on. He grabbed his lighter and flicked it on, watching as Troy's eyes tracked the flame. They were weak and the color a little dull, but that could always be remedied with an antibiotic wash. Dietrich kissed those tempting limps because he didn't feel like resisting and he watched as the younger man gasped softly. He got up quickly, letting Troy alone, and found the polish kit and his very scuffed, very dirty boots. Troy made a face and flopped back on the bed rather dramatically. He was feeling better, Dietrich thought. The rambling was a little out of the ordinary, but could always be chalked up to illness or trauma. Or time on Jersey had changed the man.

"Please don't clean my boots on the bed," Dietrich said. "Or, if you must, you'll be sleeping it in tonight before Gertrude changes the linens. I'm not going to get bootblack on my clothes, nor will I allow you to ruin the few things I managed to bring into this hell hole." He smiled when Troy glared at him and slipped down to the floor. "Now there's a good man. You do your part and I'll make sure that you have more than enough to eat."

Troy had to be starving. He was very thin and every bite of food would count when it came to getting him healthy again. Thankfully, Gertrude was a good cook and she knew how to provide nourishing meals that would be gentle on Troy's stomach. The last thing Dietrich wanted to do was sour the man and risk killing him. Dietrich left Troy alone in his quarters, confident that the patrolling dogs would keep him there, and walked across the compound to get the orders for the day. The loss of the Rat Patrol meant that supply lines were much more secure now. No one had to wait days to get salt pills, food, water, new uniforms, fuel, or manpower. In a way, it made the war easier, but much more lonely.

The clerks paid Dietrich little mind as he picked up his orders. Ansling was a good leader - he knew how to plan, but didn't tend to overthink things like Dietrich did. The compound was an ancient one, made of mud brick reinforced by timber and bits of metal. A well graced the center of the thing, guarded by a sheet metal fence and patrolling soldiers. One the other side was an armory, stocked with cars, jeeps, half-tracks, and small tanks, along with all the ammunition and fuel that those vehicles would need. Horses were stabled at the other end of the compound, their gleaming hides brushed daily by the privates and the native handlers. The dogs had their own run, cooled with fans and catered to by all and sundry.

Beckman stopped him before he went back to his quarters. "I heard you found the leader of the Rat Patrol a day or so ago."

"I did, Herr Oberst," Dietrich replied. He inclined his head and tapped his fingers over the papers. "He's a good man. Stubborn, a bit of a bastard, but a good man. A gentle hand and a little food will go far to earn his loyalty. Besides, he knows me. He knows that I won't harm him without just cause."

Beckman's lip curled. "I would like to see that _Köter_ of yours, Herr Hauptmann. He caused me nothing but trouble when I captured him and it took a harsh hand before he would respect his betters. That Sergeant of yours is no German Shepherd - no amount of gentle training will mould his incorrigible spirit into something useful. He's an American coyote - a mutt, if you will. Bad breeding and poor manners have corrupted him into something that can only be broken and _then_ formed into something marginally useful."

"He's very weak," Dietrich slowly said. "And fond of his rather sharp tongue. Perhaps you would like to see him after his breakfast? He's told me that he's not quite human before he's eaten and had a chance to smoke. I don't expect a man to hold his tongue when he's hungry and not quite awake yet. Besides, I've had him polishing my boots all morning."

"You made him polish your boots?" Beckman asked. He shook his head and smiled. "My dear Hauptmann, that is more than I got him to do after a beating. He refused to work in our factory and we nearly starved him to death before he cared for our more trivial needs. Don't underestimate this man's stubbornness - a shock collar only goes so far when he has made up his mind to refuse all orders." Beckman took Dietrich's papers and read them over. "Well then. It seems that Generaloberst Ansling has given you a few days leave to enjoy your new pet. Take my advice, Hautpmann. The few first days are the sweetest because he will be the tightest. As far as I know, your _Köter_ is untouched."

Dietrich took his papers back and mentally counted to ten. "I'm aware of that, Herr Oberst. That is why we are going to start with breakfast and a smoke and then I shall see where the day takes me. If you please..."

He let the words trail off and sidestepped Beckman. Dietrich hated that man. He was a true believer and a rabid one at that. It was rumored that he had turned in an SS man who was starting to have some doubts and convinced Ansling to have the poor bastard torn apart by dogs. Dietrich touched his pistol. Ansling trusted him. It would be easy enough to shoot Beckman and blame the attack on the French Resistance. One of their fighters, a young man known as Jen-luc, had tortured a German Major by shooting the man at close range, pulling the bullets out without anesthesia, and chaining the man out for the vultures to eat. Luck had saved Major Seidel. Jen-luc would be an easy scapegoat if Dietrich did pull the trigger.

Troy was wolfing down a bowl of thin, steaming oatmeal when Dietrich entered his quarters. "You know, I used to hate this stuff. Thought it was thin, bland, and nasty. Now it's the best damn meal I've had in weeks. Thanks for the coffee, too. You really know how to treat a man right."

Dietrich simply smiled and poured himself a cup of tea. "It's easier for a man to be compliant when he has a full belly. I've been given a week's leave to get to know you better and I intend to make the best of it."

Troy shrugged. "If there's more food and you don't get me up too early, I'm in."

"Good." Dietrich pressed a light kiss to the man's knuckles. "Eat your meal and rest some. You're going to need that energy tonight."


	6. Chapter 6

Being blind sucked. Being able to see after being blind was amazing. It was also hotter than the devil's nine hells, so he stripped off his shirt and looked around for a tub of cool water. After Jersey, he didn't think that he could ever get too warm. Now that he was back in Libya, he was feeling the sweat creep down his back and pool wherever his skin pressed against something else. Dietrich's plush bed was amazing in the cold desert nights, but it was murder when the sun was up. Most of the buildings here had been made to evade the sun, to chase away the warmth, but Troy was pretty sure that it didn't work. There was also the slightly twitchy matter of what Dietrich wanted tonight.

Troy hadn't ever visited a molly house before. He knew what they were and if you got Moffitt drunk enough, he would talk about his one time and how he damn near got married to a dashing fellow named James, but he'd never set foot near one of those things. He had always been curious about having sex with another man and had even imagined it when he was younger, but once the war started and things went to hell, he hadn't had the time. Besides, Tully had made his feelings about men who loved other men pretty clear. Troy chalked it up to the fact that Tully was born in Kentucky and was this repeating everything he had heard his preachers and parents blather on about.

Gertrude glared at him as she came in to change the linens. She was a plain looking woman, Troy thought, with carefully coifed brown hair, sallow and aged skin and a simple house dress. She seemed like a sensible woman, which was probably why she didn't like him. Troy tried his best to ignore her. He knew that he looked rough right now, with how pale he was and how bone thin he was. The last thing he needed to do was get his ass kicked by Dietrich's housekeeper. He was weak enough that it might happen regardless of what he tried to do. He tried to evade her, not liking the way she glared at him or the way she snapped the bed linens. He had the feeling that she hated him.

" _Hello_." Troy tried for all the German he knew. Thank god for Moffitt and his lessons. " _I... would you like for me to move? It wouldn't be any trouble_."

Gertrude glared and adjusted her glasses. " _I don't talk to American boy sluts. Especially boy sluts who can't fix their beds_."

Well then. Troy looked back down and tried to ignore what she said to him. A boy slut? Was that what she thought he was? A fresh ass for the whole base to enjoy? Maybe Troy needed to rethink his end of the deal if that was how things were going to go. He shuddered some. The idea of lying with Dietrich was already something that he was going to have to get over. He loved his men. He just didn't think if he could face them if he had to come back with Dietrich's seed between his legs. They might not have known, but _he_ would have known. He couldn't even talk about it with Moffitt - there was always the chance that someone might overhear him. Being pragmatic was one thing. Actually allowing himself to sleep with the enemy was another.

Dietrich knocked before he entered the bedroom. "Gertrude told me to tell you that your German is awful. I thought you would have gotten better, you know. Seeing as that was all that was barked at you."

"Most of the guards spoke English." Troy reached for a small bowl of soup and smiled. Chicken noodle soup - his favorite. "They used English because some of the guys there were French. They spoke English, not German, and the bulk of the prisoners there were English. I guess it was easier to use English with us because they didn't want to teach us their language. Thanks for the food, by the way. Any particular reason why I'm getting half the portion that you did?"

"Because I don't want to make you throw up," Dietrich replied. He sat down on the bed and shrugged. "Gertrude would have to clean it up and that wouldn't go so well for you. She already doesn't like you very much."

"I've noticed." Troy looked down and debated licking the bowl. "Any reason why she called me a boy slut? You gonna have me service the entire base here or am I just going to be your private little bitch?" He kicked himself for saying that last word. There wasn't any way for him to get out of here now. "Look. I would love to get the hell out of here and never darken your door again. I just... Dietrich, I don't know if I can go through with my end of the bargain! I've... I've never done anything like this before. My men would hate me. _I_ would hate me. Doesn't that mean anything?"

Dietrich shook his head. "I'm sorry, Troy. I'll do what I can, but Beckman wants to see you. I can't keep you away from him forever. I can try to help you, I can try to keep him off your back, but I can't keep him out of here forever."

Troy shuddered and tried not to throw up. Beckman hadn't touched him. Beckman had just starved him, whipped him, shocked him, made him watch as his squad were killed. Beckman had held his head under water for the longest time. Troy thought that he would drown right then, that he would die in that filthy horse tank and they would feed his body to the pigs or the dogs. It had been utter hell for him to go through that. The way the electricity had made him scream, the way the guards beat him with cudgels and batons. The time they broke his nose or blinded him with some kind of medication. The hunger that ripped through his belly. The screams of the men as they were dragged into the machines that the Nazis operated.

"I don't think I can eat this," Troy softly said. He pushed the bowl away and settled against the wall. "Does he have to come here?"

"Yes, I'm afraid he does." Beckman walked through that carved wooden door like he owned the place. "My, my, my. You look like utter horse shit, you know. All thin and pale and tired. Are you going to attack me this time, hmm?"

"Go to hell," Troy weakly said. He wrapped his hands around his belly. "Just go to hell already, will you?!"

"No." Beckman sat down beside him and grabbed Troy's hair. He yanked the man closer, a dark smile on his face. "I don't think I will. You and your desert rats caused me all sorts of trouble. Your Sergeant Moffitt is being held on al-Shahram Island under a Major Schneider. That man is a hardened warrior. He's not going to take any of your feral little antics. If your Hauptmann Dietrich is worth his salt as a man, he's going to make sure that you're brought to heel, too." He pressed a harsh kiss to Troy's lips and shoved him way as he got up. "Just make sure that you train him well, you know."

Troy held himself and eyed the bowl of soup. He had an idea, one that was going to get them both in trouble. He hated Beckman enough that he was going to risk it. Troy looked down at the stone cold bowl of soup. He wasn't really thinking when he picked it up and weighed it in his hands. Then he slung it at Beckman with all the strength left in his ravaged body.

Soup splattered all over the place and it was glorious.


	7. Chapter 7

Dietrich opened his mouth and closed it again. He honestly didn't know what to say. Never in his wildest dreams would he have thought that Troy would do something so completely and utterly _stupid_. Troy glared like he was a petulant child and he didn't want to eat a bowl of prunes. Not that he had just thrown the mess hall's finest offerings all over the highest ranking man in camp. Dietrich had no idea what he was going to do or how he was going to explain this one away. Troy was sick, too sick to withstand much of a beating, and that was going to be what Beckman demanded. Dietrich stepped back and mechanically reached for his handkerchief. It was the very least he could do, really.

"What were you thinking?" Dietrich softly asked. "What went through that morass you call a mind?!"

"He wouldn't stop touching me," Troy calmly said. He struggled up and set his jaw. "I'm not going to take him groping me sitting down, you know. I might look like utter horse shit, as you say, but at least I've got my pride."

"I'll pay the cleaning bill?" Dietrich weakly suggested. He had no idea how he was going to soothe this one over. "Herr Oberst, I assure you that this will never happen again. I don't know how I'm going to punish him without killing him, but rest assure that I will." Dietrich paused and looked at Beckman. The man was fuming. Dietrich had to soothe this over and _fast_. "Ah, Herr Oberst, I will send for a new uniform, have this one cleaned and pressed, and then discipline this man. Would you like for me to send for a man now? I promise that it won't take a terrible time and -"

"Shut. _Up_." Beckman stalked over and grabbed Troy, yanking him up by the chin and glaring into the man's still hazy eyes. "You little _rat_. This is how you treat a member of the master race? By throwing your food all over me?" He growled and shook Troy hard enough to make the man cry out before backhanding him hard enough to send Troy sprawling. "I should have killed you back in France! I should have drowned you when I had the chance. You caused me no end of problems then and you'll do the same thing now. I should have killed you when I had the chance in the desert or had your own men do the same with a firing squad. It says a lot, you know, that your own leadership trusted _me_ over _you_."

Troy coughed and spat blood on the swept stone floor. "One of these days, I'm gonna killed you."

Beckman kicked Troy in the ribs and stepped over the man's prone body to kick him again. Troy struggled and tried to get away. Beckman kicked him again and ground Troy's right hand under his boot heel. Troy screamed and writhed, scratching at the man's legs and trying to get away. He bled from a split lip and he was wheezing. He coughed more blood, holding his hand close to his body. The man's blue eyes glittered like he was rabid and he reached for another weapon. Dietrich swallowed. He had to do this to save the man's life. He kicked the shoes away from the man and tried to ignore the hurt look in Troy's eyes. He was playing the long game now, trying to save Troy's life.

"Herr Oberst, I think he has learned his lesson," Dietrich said. He coughed some and stepped in front of the wounded man. "I would rather like to keep his hands working so he can keep shining my boots and learn to give me pleasure in the ways I like it. I can take care of it from here. Thank you for starting the matter, but I can finish it." He bowed his head. "Thank you for showing me how I needed to handle him, Herr Oberst."

Beckman growled softly. "Make sure that he doesn't choke on his own blood. I'll continue this when I think that he won't drop dead from a well deserved lashing."

Dietrich tried to swallow his bile. "Of course, Herr Oberst. I will make sure to get him as strong as possible so that his ability to work will not be impacted for too long. Again, thank you. I'm sure you have a camp to run, so I won't hold you here much longer. Good day, Herr Oberst, and I will look forwards to working with you after the next week."

Beckman snarled and stormed out. Dietrich winced as the door slammed behind him. He knelt down beside Troy, drawing the whimpering man into his lap. Troy was breathing heavily now, blood coloring his lips. Dietrich touched his hand, feeling for broken bones. He ran his hands over the man's fragile ribs, wincing when he cried out and flinched. Purple bruises formed rapidly over the broken places and Troy mewed in pain. He lolled his head to the side, his eyes wide and unfocused. Dietrich feared that he was going into shock. He wanted to shake the man, to demand that he understand what he had done, but he knew the man had already been punished. It would be cruel for him to do much else.

"Why?" Dietrich asked. "What part of that even sounded like a good idea? Was it worth it?"

Troy winced and rubbed his ribs. He coughed again and spat the blood over his shoulder. "Not the worst he's beaten me, being honest. He just broke a few ribs instead of my arm. Let me rest of a few days, keep off of me, and I'll heal up pretty good. He hates me, you know. Thinks I'm the reason why he got busted back to colonel instead of being a brigadier genera or some shit like that. He... he ran us hard and beat us a lot. We were hungry all the time, he liked the whip, and he hated me. I know he was using one of the other prisoners for sex - the guy was named Barnes or something like that. We managed to bribe one of the guards to let us escape and then I stabbed him. Couldn't have the bastard talk, you know."

Dietrich sighed. "You didn't answer my question. Was that moment of satisfaction worth the beating?"

"Yes." Troy struggled up and let Dietrich wrap his ribs. "I don't feel like I'm bleeding on the inside, so that's one thing. Hurts like hell fire, though. One thing I haven't missed is being beat up by that devil."

"Please don't try him." Dietrich offered Troy some water and cleaned the rest of his wounds. "Please don't try the Oberst. He will kill you and there's nothing that I can do about it. No one here likes him very much, but we can't go against him. We think he's Gestapo, so even the general bows to him. He... keeps a slave in his room. A man with dark eyes and he sings like a bird. The men call him Nightingale, I think, and he sounds like the most beautiful thing you ever heard. Beckman broke him, though. Took the fire from his eyes with a whip and salt water over a few months and took a proud man into a cowering, scared mess. I don't want the same to happen to you, Sergeant."

Troy nodded weakly and curled up into Troy's hands. "Alright," he softly said. "I'll try."

Dietrich wished he could believe the man, even though he knew that wouldn't last for too long. Troy was a warrior. He was going to fight and try the man he hated - it was just in his blood. Maybe that was why he had first fallen for the wounded, shivering man in his arms.


	8. Chapter 8

Troy might have been lying when he said that this wasn't the worst beating Beckman had given him. The guards in this hellhole needed the slaves to be as strong as possible. That meant food and enough of it, water, rest, and a lack of beatings. If slaves were whipped all the time, they wouldn't be able to keep the harbor clean. That kind of work was hard, almost incredibly so. The guards on Jersey hadn't cared as much, probably because they could always import more prisoners and didn't have the escape risk, so they had been free to starve good men to death and whip them so much that they died within a few hours. Troy shuddered as he held his hand close to him.

He'd never been permanently damaged by one of these displays of kraut impulsiveness. This was a first that he didn't like very much.

Dietrich sighed softly and offered Troy a cool rag. He wrapped that around his throbbing hand, curling up on the floor. He had heard of things like this, pained whispers that were passed around by the men about the evil things that were done to them. There was a man named Barnes who had the worst done to him. Troy didn't know how much of that story was just lurid speculation and embroidery by bored men, but he didn't want to find out. He looked up to Dietrich, trying to understand what the man wanted with him. He didn't want to be with a woman, but that didn't mean he wanted to be pinned under someone he barely knew. If the stories were right, then he was going to be bleed.

Troy pulled away and shook his head. "I can't go through with my part of the deal, Captain."

"Why not?" Dietrich asked.

"You see, I've got this thing about bleeding. I don't enjoy it." Troy hissed when he tried to flex his ruined hand. "So if you could just drop me behind Allied lines with a day's supply of water, I'd be much obliged to you. Or you could send a letter back to Moffitt because I know you have his address. He sends you all that fancy champagne. I would like to get out of here, mostly because Beckman wants my head on a stick."

"I can't allow you to leave." Dietrich curled him into his lap and stroked his hair. "You threw a bowl of soup at the man. I know you don't like him, but you can't do things like that! You'll get me - and _you_ \- in trouble. I don't want you to be whipped by that man because he might - no he _will_ \- take things too far. I don't want you to die, Sergeant. I like you. You're a good man - you don't deserve to be killed in such a way. I don't want to hear you screaming and the last thing I want is to know that you died while on my watch."

Troy understood that. He just wanted to get out of here, but he had no idea what he was going to do. He growled at the man, trying to make him back off. He didn't want to be touched right now. Troy wanted to go home, but he didn't even know if he could do such a thing. There was no way for the Underground to get him out of here. He was in pain, thin from his year of abuse on Jersey, and in enemy territory. Usually, this thing wouldn't bother him, but then he had his men with him. Here, he was alone. There was no one for him to ride off into the sunset with and he had no way of even finding his men if he did manage to escape. The desert was huge and less than forgiving. One false move could easily get him killed.

"I want to go home," Troy whispered. "Think you could arrange a prisoner swap or something? Maybe I'm worth a few privates or something like that. I'm sure they would want to send me on some kind of bond tour."

Dietrich kissed him softly. "You know I can't arrange that, Troy. You're mine, a kept man if you will. I can't just dump you on your ass out in the world."

Troy knew. That didn't mean he had to like it. He hated how powerless he felt, how he knew that there was nothing he could do. He wanted out of this place. Troy had heard that there was a prison camp in Germany that functioned as a sort of way station for escaped prisoners. He wished that he could go there, maybe see if he liked it better, and then try to escape. Dietrich kissed the top of his head and got up. He came back with a mug of coffee, American style, and held Troy while he drank it. Troy curled around the other man. If wishes were purebred horses, then he would have been the richest man in the world. He wouldn't be here right now. He would be back in America, with a woman he didn't love and being bored.

Someone started singing. Troy closed his eyes and listened to the dark, rich voice. He didn't know a thing about the song that the man knew, but it was about love and loss. The words seemed to curl around him and lift his soul out of darkness. Troy wished he could meet that man and ask him the song. It sounded like something he would have enjoyed, but he didn't know and it annoyed him. A few seconds afterwards, the man screamed. Beckman snarled something that Troy couldn't catch and the man cried out again. His beautiful voice cracked and trailed off into a harsh, choking cry. Troy scrambled to the window. He had to keep witness, to see what Beckman was doing to an innocent man.

A dark haired man crouched against the swept courtyard. He bled heavily from a series of lash strokes and Beckman stood over him. There was a cruel glint in his eyes and he cracked the whip. The dark haired man - it had to be Nightingale - crouched and tried to protect himself, but it was to no avail. Beckman kicked him in the ribs, sending Nightingale sprawling and looking up at the sky.

He grabbed Dietrich. "You gotta do something! He's gonna kill that poor bastard!"

"I can't do that," Dietrich softly said. "You know I can't do anything."

"Please!" Troy shook his head and sank down to his knees. "Look, I'll do anything you want. Just don't let Beckman kill that man!"

"I'll try," Dietrich finally replied. "No promises, though. I'll do what I can, though I can't promise anything. Just that I'll try."

It would have to do. That was all Troy could do - hope that things were going to get better.


	9. Chapter 9

Dietrich hated dealing with these things, but Troy was upset and he needed to humor the man. Beckman had a right to do with his kept man as he saw fit. If that meant torturing the poor bastard, that meant torturing the poor bastard. Most times, there was nothing Dietrich could do about it. However, when the punishment was dragged into the courtyard - the courtyard that Dietrich reigned supreme in - that meant that Dietrich could get involved and take care of the problem as he saw fit. Right now, that meant grabbing his hat, his coat, a pistol, and a riding crop. Sundown had painted the little courtyard with all sorts of vibrant colors and a shivering olive skinned man crouched beside a half painted half-track.

"Herr Oberst, I would hate for him to get blood on the paint job," Dietrich softly said. "You know this is my parade ground, not a punishment block."

"Yes and this man has not obeyed, has he?" Beckman sneered. He touched the bleeding and bruised man, pushing him across the bloody ground. "You forget, Herr Hauptmann, that I outrank you by a good deal. I would like to remind you that I can use your precious parade ground as a punishment block if I want. If you don't like it, Herr Dietrich, I can send you to the Eastern Front. I hear that they're in dire need of officers in Stalingrad and you're just the type of man we need. After all, you know how to drive tanks and lead men and how to not get killed by irritating Americans." He glared and kicked Nightingale harder. "Like this one. He refuses to sing what I wish him to sing."

"I'll buy him," Dietrich quickly said. He went through his pockets and came up with two Reichmarks. "I'll - this is all I have on me, but I can get more. Much of my money is tied up in old back home, you understand, and I - "

"I don't care," Beckman replied. He grinned and snatched the money from Dietrich's hands and kicked the bleeding man over to Dietrich. "Enjoy. He's yours."

Dietrich tried to ignore the way the blood marred his perfectly swept ground. He couldn't punish Nightingale for something that had been done to him. He glared at Beckman, though, and helped the wounded man up. Nightingale rested against him. He was a pretty enough man, Dietrich supposed, even though he was very thin. He had faded olive skin, cloudy dark eyes, and tangled dark hair. The man could sing, Dietrich knew. He had heard Nightingale sing a sad song - in English - at the officer's club. It wasn't one of the stupid pop songs - it was something far older and it seemed to weave through the air like a beautiful snake or some kind of strange Chinese dragon.

Nightingale shook his head and leaned against the wall. "Hurts..."

"Yes, I think it should," Dietrich replied. He shook his head and tried to ignore the way his gaze roamed over the man's slender, pretty body. "He beat you pretty badly and I did lose all my pocket money on you. Hopefully, Troy's joy at saving another hapless bastard from Beckman is going to more than make up for that little stunt. I don't know what I'm doing for drinks tonight."

"Let me make it better," Nightingale whispered. He lowered himself to the ground, his bruised and bloody knees scraping the rocks. He nuzzled Dietrich's crotch and looked up with those dark eyes. "Please. I'm... well, not good enough to make up for two marks, but I can help. I think. I'll make you and Troy very happy, just as long as you don't beat me again. I don't think I can take it." He coughed blood on the ground and closed his eyes. "I don't wanna take a beating. I'll do whatever you want. _Please_. Just don't hit me like that again."

Dietrich pulled back and opened his mouth, but Nightingale must have decided that was the go ahead. He nuzzled the man's trousers and then pulled at the zipper with his teeth. Dietrich tried to say something, but then Nightingale took him all the way down. What should have been a word of protest turned into a long, low moan. Nightingale's mouth was like hot, wet silk. He laved his tongue all over Dietrich's hard, hot cock before taking him down to the root again. Dark eyes, hot and pained, stared up at Dietrich. They were such a contrast to the bruises and the discoloration that came from the beating. He nuzzled all over the man, using just a hint of teeth that made Dietrich whine and jolt.

"Gods of the sky..." Dietrich whispered.

It had been too long. He hadn't had the time and this sort of thing was frowned upon. He cried out, then shoved his fist into his mouth to stop the sound. His hips twitched of their own accord, but Nightingale didn't even gag. He just guided Dietrich's hand to the back of his head and winked. Dietrich didn't know what to do. He knew he wasn't going to last long, though, and he tried to warn the man. Nightingale did something with his tongue - something that felt so amazing that Dietrich couldn't hold back. He cried out and arched his back. There was no time to pull out or even warn Nightingale - all he could do was try to ride out the storm and hope that no one saw them.

Dietrich pulled back and tried to regain his composure. "What the hell?"

"Was I good?" Nightingale whispered.

"Yes, you were good," Dietrich managed. He helped the man up and shook his head. "Just...don't do that again?"

Nightingale shook his head. Dietrich feared that he was going to be trouble, but it was too late to change things now. He just hoped that Troy was happy with what he'd gotten, though.


	10. Chapter 10

The worst thing about his new station in life was that he was bored. In the past, if Troy had wanted a little action, he had been able to grab the jeeps, start a fight, and maybe win a little territory back for Old Glory. This was so boring that Troy wanted to pull his hair out. There wasn't much that he wouldn't give to hear Tully prattle on about his comic books or listen to Moffitt as he talked about life in England. Troy wanted to go to one of those resorts now. He wanted to watch the people, ride the tacky rides, and watch the horses bring the bathers out to sea. Instead of some delightful place by the sea - and a tryst that could stay hidden - he was stuck in the land of mud brick and sand.

Dietrich knocked on the warped and worn wooden frame as he walked in. "So I found your Nightingale, Troy. Apparently, he's been trained a little too well. Maybe sure you have him keep his mouth to himself."

Nightingale curled in on himself as Dietrich dropped him off beside the bed. He was a tall man, completely naked and covered in scratches and bruises. His hair was shaggy with curls and a glossy black in color. Nightingale had the darkest brown eyes that Troy had ever seen. He shivered as Troy approached him. He looked up, like he was expecting to get hurt, and shuddered when Troy touched his hair. It took Nightingale a second, but he arched his head into the touch. His hair was filthy and so greasy that strands of it clung to Troy's hair. He shuddered and tried not to look down at the man in disgust. It wasn't Nightingale's fault. He might not have had the option to bathe. Maybe he had been a prisoner like Troy had.

"It's okay," Troy whispered. He sat beside the man and stroked his hair. "I think we need to get you a bath."

"Thanks," Nightingale whispered. He closed his eyes and shuddered softly. "It's... it's been a long time. Fucking filthy animals. They... He wouldn't let me. Not til I did what he wanted and I never did what he wanted until he made me. Sometimes they whipped me. Sometimes they made me bleed. God, I hate them. I want to kill them all and feed their rotting corpses to the pigs."

"Dietrich isn't like that." Troy helped him up and started running water for a hot bath. "He's a good man, for a kraut. He's not gonna hurt you, not unless you do something really stupid. He put up with my crazy ass all those years and I was trying to kill him."

He settled the man into the water and started washing him off. Nightingale shivered softly. He keened a little as Troy started on his hair and the best of his body. He drained and rinsed the water twice before it ran clear. Then, he stripped off his own clothes and settled against Nightingale in the tub. It was one of those claw footed things, something Troy had always thought looked so fancy and so rich. Troy curled up beside Nightingale and held the shivering man in his arms. The warm water wrapped around them both like a blanket, drawing them close into their embrace. The kisses came naturally, Troy nosing along little bits of cleaned skin and trying to show the man that he was safe.

Nightingale kissed him back. It was soft, unsure almost, like he wasn't sure what he was doing. Troy deepened the kiss as he drew his fingers through the man's thick, wet hair. Nightingale moaned softly as Troy tugged his hair. He pressed into the man a little more, running his chapped hands over smooth and supple skin. Troy groaned softly. He nipped Nightingale's lip, trying to put a name to what he was feeling right now. He wasn't scared, not at all. He could always pull away if he didn't like this. Troy pressed a deeper kiss to Nightingale's lips and rolled over. He'd never been touched like he wanted to be touched right now. It was like there was some kind of longing in him, something that he had never even thought he could have before.

Nightingale pulled back. "I think we should move this to the bed. It would be easier on my knees."

"It's your party," Troy murmured. He kissed Nightingale some more and rested against the man's narrow chest. "I've never done this before."

"And I've done it enough that it's nothing special." Nightingale pushed Troy back and gave him a wry smile. "Look, I know what you're thinking. You're young, you're horny, you want to go sit on a dick. Now me? I'm tired and I want to sleep in a bed for once. No hard feelings, though. I'm just not interested right now. Doesn't mean that I won't ever be in the mood, though."

Troy understood. He helped the man dry off when he needed it and even found a pair of loose fitting, silk pajamas. Nightingale shuddered when he looked at them, but dressed anyways and settled into the bed. Troy curled up beside him. It felt so right, so natural to be curled up in another man's arms. It was like he was born to stay there, to be held and petted by another man. Troy had hated himself for the longest time, thinking that he was broken and hell bound. He had begged and prayed to be delivered from this curse, but nothing had ever helped. Then the war had came and he had to forget all of that. He still had his brother to give his parents an heir. They wouldn't want him back if they knew how he loved - he would stay dead to them.

Nightingale kissed away the tears. "What's wrong?"

"My parents hate me," Troy whispered. "It's not my fault. I can't help who I love, even if they tell me that I'm awful and evil and I'll never be anything because of it. I don't want to care anymore, but it's so fucking hard."

Nightingale smiled crookedly. "Long as you don't fall in love with that kraut, I'll love you."

"Alright," Troy lied. He sprawled out on top of Nightingale and tried to breathe in his scent. "I think I could die being held like this and I would love every second of it."

He meant it, too, even if he was lying about not falling in love with Dietrich. Maybe Nightingale would come around. Hopefully. Maybe.

But when had he ever been lucky?


	11. Chapter 11

Dietrich absolutely hated doing paperwork. It was boring, everything had to be filed in triplicate, and never ending. Everyone had something that they wanted him to fill out and file for them. He was thinking about getting a rubber stamp for his signature at this point and he was going through nibs and ink like they were going out of style. The tired little fan spun in lazy circles above him. It barely even stirred the hot, dry air. Dietrich had the windows open and the door. Security could go to hell - no one was going to attack this place unless they had one of those newfangled jet powered bombers the Allies were always boasting about. And even then, Wahat al-Alqamar was too far behind German lines for a bomber crew to hope to get through.

 _Feldwebel_ Josua Ganser knocked on the wide open door frame as he entered the little room. "You really should lock that, you know. There are far too many eyes that know German these days. The last thing we need is one of our operations getting leaked to the enemy."

"Ganser, if I wanted advice from a sergeant major, I would give it to you," Dietrich grumbled. "And besides, it is very hot. I don't like roasting in one of these Libyan ovens. If they were to find out any of our secrets - which I also _highly_ doubt - we would quickly know who it was and turn them over to the Gestapo or the SS - whichever is more convenient to me."

Ganser's eye twitched. " _Hauptmann_..."

"Unless you want to get busted back to private, I suggest that you tell me what you want and then get out," Dietrich snapped. "I'm not in the mood for your little games and I don't want to spend all day playing "guess why you're here" with an enlisted man. Either you spit out why you're here or you get lost. If you anger me too much, I could always transfer you to the Eastern front."

Ganser went pale under his tan and pulled at his collar. " _Oberst_ Beckman would like to see you, Herr _Hauptmann_. He seemed rather annoyed and I didn't want you to catch the brunt of it for minor matters."

Dietrich sighed as he grabbed his coat. He hated wearing that damn thing - whoever decided they needed to be in full uniform needed to be dragged out behind the barracks and shot - but he also didn't want to anger the _Oberst_ by being out of uniform. The hot sun beat down on him as he crossed the compound. The other troops ignored him for the most part, but Dietrich knew that there were several who disliked him. Dietrich was the one who enforced the rules that they hated and added a few of his own besides. Sweat drenched everyone's uniform and the homely little jumart who worked the well was getting quite the workout. Dietrich hoped that the soldiers were taking care of the little beast - jumarts were quite rare and he didn't want one to be worked to death because some enlisted man didn't want to pump his own water.

Beckman's office was away from the sun and it had several fans running at the same time. There was a safe open - this one not being the one that the Rat Patrol blasted open - and Dietrich thought that he could see the pale, glittering light that came from desert glass or South African diamonds. Beckman wasn't in yet, though his coat was tossed over the back of a well worn wing back chair and a _Pickelhaube_ from the First War was placed on the carved mahogany desk. The man had very few personal effects other than that scattered around and there were no native rugs or bits of art that one might purchase at the local bazaar. The office seemed to bland and impersonal, just like the man himself.

Beckman cleared his throat as he walked into the sad little room. "It took you long enough."

"My apologies, Herr _Oberst_." Dietrich bowed his head and clasped his arms behind his back. "I was told that you wanted to see me, though I have no idea why. The requirement forms that you sent me have been filled out and sent back to Berlin on the morning mail plane. I have had no communications or messages regarding your department, nor have I been notified of any sort of personnel visits."

Beckman waited for a long time. There was something cold about his eyes, like he was a sand viper waiting for the right chance to strike. The man stalked around the room, running his fingers over the shelves and picking up what few ornaments that he had. He held one of them like he wanted to strike Dietrich with it. Beckman's hands and arms were covered in scars, like he had gotten them caught in barbed wire at one point in time, and his arms were lean and muscular. The man even moved like a caged cat. He was clearly spoiling for a fight, but Dietrich wasn't going to give him one. Beckman was known for his temper. There was probably a reason why Nightingale was so torn up.

"How's the little brat I sent you?" Beckman softly asked. "You know, you're a very brave man, keeping that Troy and Nightingale together. Troy was known for starting fights when I had him last in my camp. He stirred the other prisoners to rebellion more than once and no matter how many times I whipped him, he refused to stop. I left him in a cage for a few weeks, alone of course, and he finally decided to see things my way. After, of course, I whipped him a few more times. Nightingale is a little brat. You can make him act like he was trained by a school of harlots if you know how to do it. I don't think you can do much with Troy unless you break whatever is left of his spirit."

"I left him to rest, sir," Dietrich replied. "Your beating has left him quite injured and I didn't want to cause him any more injuries."

"You spent two marks," Beckman drawled. "Two marks. I've bought _bait dogs_ for more than that."

Dietrich winced. "Sir, I don't want to kill him. Troy likes the man and I think that he might be the decent sort if I give him the chance. It's not like I'm going to waste him just because I bought him cheaply. Doing so might well be criminal."

Beckman snorted. He turned on his heels, like he was about to go. There was something in his eyes, though, and it looked like he had more that he wanted to say. Dietrich waited for him. Anger crossed the man's face and he sneered a little.

"Get lost," Beckman snapped. "You're dismissed. Now get back to whatever you're doing and keep out of my office."

For once, Dietrich was happy to obey.


	12. Chapter 12

Troy curled into Nightingale and inhaled the other man's scent. It was nice to be around another American for once and not have to worry about the guards overhearing. Troy really hated those sons of bitches. They had been free to do whatever they wanted and, more often than not, they chose to abuse the prisoners. Troy knew that they reigned with fists and jack boots. His ribs were probably permanently bruised from all the blows they had given him. Resting on these sheepskins, pressed against a man that he liked, was probably the best thing for him. Alex was still bony, but he made for a nice pillow. They could cur; up together and forget the world together.

Dietrich knocked before he entered the room. "Don't make me look bad, please?"

"Leave me alone," Troy grumbled. He rolled over, wincing as it jostled his ribs. "I really don't feel good and all I want to do is sleep. We're not gonna make you look bad unless you want the two of us on Jeeps blowing the hell out of your supply lines." He grumbled and blinked up at the tall Hauptmann. "You look like you've seen hell. What happened?"

"I found your hat." Dietrich tossed Troy's hat on the bed and pointedly ignored Troy's rather undignified cry as he grabbed for it. "Thank you would be nice. I had to play the enlisted men for it. You owe me fifty marks."

Troy winced. He wasn't quite sure on the conversions, but that sounded like a lot of money. Still, though, he had his hat back. He jammed his rather battered slouch hat over his head before propping his feet on the carved railing. Troy knew he needed to get up and walk. He had lost a good deal of his muscle mass and he needed to get it back before it was gone forever. He glanced up to Dietrich. The man was leaning against his bookcase, perusing what looked like a small book. Troy couldn't read Arabic very well, but he thought the little tome was a map book. Probably wells, trails, and Roman roads. Troy swore under his breath. He was still an American soldier. He needed to destroy that book before it was used to kill even more Allied soldiers.

He climbed out of the bed and swore when his legs bent under him. It was like his body couldn't even take its own weight. Troy grabbed for the nightstand and dragged himself up. His body felt like he was being dragged over a few miles of broken rock and, going by the way his heart was racing in his chest, he probably needed to sit down. Troy groaned. He wasn't good at listening to his body. That book needed to be destroyed. He might have liked Dietrich, but the man was still the enemy. If Troy had the book and Dietrich was the injured man, Dietrich would have tried the same thing. Troy dragged himself across the room. Everything hurt, but he still had to do it.

Dietrich snapped the book shut and put it on the top of the case. "I don't think you would like a book of love poems written by a Tenth Century Persian queen, but that book was quite expensive. I don't want it to get ruined."

Troy grabbed the shelf and held on as best he could. "You mean it's not a map book? You know, Moffitt taught me how to read Arabic. I know enough to know that the book has the words "water" and "map" in the title. I'm not stupid and the last thing I want is for your side to use that stupid thing to kill more of my guys. Sending them to Jersey needs to stop, too, and the way you use prisoners for slave labor makes me _sick_."

"You know I can't control that," Dietrich replied. "That's something for Berlin to decide. If you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly flavor of the month around here."

Troy winced. He slowly lowered himself against the floor, still using the book case as a prop. He glanced over to the bed. It was only on the other side of a rather small room, but he might as well have been asked to swim the English Channel. Troy glanced over to Dietrich. The man just watched him, his dark eyes as keen and sharp as an eagle's. Troy had half a mind to ask the man to help him up, but then he decided that he wasn't going to give the man that pleasure. He never let the other guards hear him scream. Troy wasn't going to give Dietrich that same pleasure. He grabbed the lowest ledge of the bookshelf and started trying to drag himself up again. He would be damned if he let Dietrich carry him to bed like he was a child.

Dietrich caught Troy under the arms and helped him up. Troy ducked his head when he saw Nightingale staring right at him. He really couldn't help that he was so thin that Dietrich could just pull him up like he was just a bundle of rags. His rations had been pitiful. The work had been hard and never ending. He had needed so much more food than what they had given him. The ones that couldn't work that much - or didn't have the reserves that he did - had been left to die or even shot. Troy didn't think that Dietrich would kill him because he was so weak, but he didn't want to find out the hard way. He hated being as weak as water and having to trust a kraut for every basic thing he needed.

"Next time, don't strain yourself," Dietrich warned him. "I might not be so willing to help you next time."

"I want that book," Troy softly said. "I'm going to get it and you know it. All you're doing is delaying the inevitable."

"Then I'm going to have to ensure that you never find it again," Dietrich replied. He smiled wryly and rubbed Troy's hair. "You were right, you know. It is a map book - a map book that I made. It shows every well and Roman road in the area. It's one of a kind and took me several years to create. I'm not going to let you destroy it, Troy. That might get us both killed."

Troy rolled over and sighed. "We'll see about that, Hauptmann."

He was going to burn that book come hell or high water.


	13. Chapter 13

Dietrich rather enjoyed Troy's fighting spirit. The man just didn't know how to quit - he never even knew _when_ to quit - and it was amusing to watch him spit fire and brimstone. Dietrich couldn't resist. He helped Troy up and pressed a kiss against those dry and chapped lips. Troy gasped some and stiffened. It was clear he didn't expect this, but that was okay. He didn't try to fight back or scratch as Dietrich deepened the kiss. He wanted to know everything there was to know about this man, wanted to keep his fingers tangled in Troy's hair. Behind him, he heard Nightingale say something, but he didn't care to try and listen. He tried to put feelings into that kiss and when he finally drew back, Troy looked at him with dazed eyes.

"That..." Troy trailed off and blushed. "Why?"

"Because I've wanted to do that for a long time," Dietrich murmured. He pressed another kiss against Troy's cheek and smiled. "Why are you so scared of me? I'm not going to go that far, you know. Not until you're ready for it."

Troy nodded and looked away. Dietrich cupped the man's all too bony ass. The desert heat had often forced the Sergeant to go shirtless and his pants had been a little too tight from the repeated washings and darnings. It had given Dietrich quite the chance to admire the man with his eyes, but nothing compared with the real thing. Now he was free to touch - to _hold_ \- without fear of Troy's comrades shooting him. Dietrich wanted to savor every second of it. Troy hadn't been taking his shirt off, but it buttoned up the front and it was easy to pop the buttons loose. He was thin now and very pale, but shadows of the man Dietrich had loved remained. Troy just needed a little time before he was strong and beautiful once again.

"Can I please sit down?" Troy's voice was soft and conflicted. "I... Look. I don't know what you want from me. Hell, I don't know if I can give it to you!"

Dietrich smiled and helped Troy back to the overcrowded bed. "Easy, Sergeant. Why don't you let me do the thinking for the both of us. All I want to do is find out what you like and see if it's good for both of us."

Troy licked his bottom lip. "Your gloves," he finally admitted. "I kinda liked how it felt when you grabbed my hand wearing those that one time. And I like kissing - I think I like kissing men and women." 

Dietrich could work with that. He wondered if Troy had ever experimented with what he liked or if that had been exclusive to Berlin before the little sign painter took over. It was a good thing that Dietrich had never used his real name - if he did, there was a good chance that the fanatics would have tried to kill them. Their vision for Germany didn't seem to include anyone who deviated from their established terms. Dietrich mentally shook himself. Those were dangerous thoughts and this wasn't the time. Right now, he had a beautiful man in his arms and he was a blushing virgin. Dietrich had never been with a virgin before and it excited hom somewhat, knowing that he would be Troy's first.

He pressed another kiss against Troy's lips and encouraged him to run his hands all over Dietrich's body. Nightingale made a disgusted noise and rather pointedly rolled over. Dietrich ignored him. He covered Troy's face in kisses, smiling as the man squirmed. A man had base needs. This was going to fill some of them and Dietrich intended to make it good. He brushed aside the unbuttoned shirt and flicked his tongue over one pert nipple. Troy squeaked. His body jerked and he instinctively grasped Dietrich's shirt. Dietrich smiled and licked over the little nub. Troy rolled his hips some, like he was searching for something - _anything_ \- and Dietrich still him with a single hand to his bony hips.

"Easy," Dietrich murmured. "We'll get there in time."

"Easy for you to say!" Troy snarled. "All I had was my right hand and a lot of times not even that! Now make me feel good, dammit, or I don't know what I'll do!"

"There's the Sergeant Troy I know," Dietrich replied. He pressed a chaste kiss to Troy's lips. "I was wondering where he went. I love it when you're so pushy, love. You don't let me show you what it means to be loved by German nobility. Just trust me, that's all."

Troy smiled and nipped Dietrich's right ear. "Give me that little book and I'll let you have your wicked way."

Dietrich laughed for real. "Not a chance, Sergeant. That book is worth more than a thousand pounds of gold and I'm not going to let you burn it up. No, we'll do things my way or not at all."

"You'll leave me like this?" Troy gestured to the rather obvious bulge in his pants. "That's savage!"

"Then you should do what I want," Dietrich teased. "Not that you ever will, but that's part of the game."

Troy chuckled and pressed a kiss against Dietrich's side. He seemed more relaxed now, like he wasn't afraid that Dietrich might hurt him. Dietrich didn't intend to hurt the man. Nightingale didn't seem to really care what was going on. He was rather pointedly reading a book and had his dirty feet propped up on the clean sheepskin. Dietrich was in a good enough mood that he didn't say anything. He just curled up with Troy and stroked through his hair. Troy fit so perfectly under Dietrich's chin that he didn't want to let the man go. It felt so good and right. Dietrich didn't want to spoil it by pressing for more than Troy was ready for, so he just held the man and stroked his hair.

Nightingale gave Dietrich a long look. "And what about me?"

"Go back to reading your book," Dietrich replied. He stroked Troy's cheek and tried to keep him calm. "I'm not going to force you to do anything you don't want, especially when it comes to your body."

"That's what they all say," Nightingale growled. "Then they all make you bleed."

Dietrich sighed. "Just be kind to Troy, please. He's already been through enough and the last thing I want to do is have him hurt even more."


	14. Chapter 14

Troy curled up beside Dietrich. He had always been cold in that hellish camp - there just hadn't been a way to get warm and even the guards had complained about the inefficient heaters - and the only way to survive the wet, cold chill was to curl up with another guy. Sure, there was probably something queer about it, but it had kept everyone from freezing to death. Snuggling up was better than getting your fingers frozen off or, worse yet, getting frostbite on your cock. That had happened to one of the other prisoners and he had died from the resulting infection. It wasn't like they could just go to a field hospital and get a shot of penicillin. If there even was such a drug on Jersey, it had been reserved for the krauts only.

Dietrich rolled over and kissed him softly. That seemed to be something he enjoyed doing and, to be fair, Troy enjoyed it as well. It made him feel warm inside in a way that cuddling with a man and eating warm soup couldn't. Troy thought he could stay there forever, sprawled out on sheepskins and basking in the warmth that came from the desert and having two others hold him. The bed was soft for once and large enough that he could just sprawl out. Dietrich hadn't even tried to make him walk. All they did was cuddle there and maybe kiss a little. Troy was frustrated - Dietrich seemed to enjoy ignoring his arousal and it really had been a long time since Troy had felt good enough to rub one out.

"What you were doing before," Troy softly said. "Would you do it again?"

"I don't see why not." Dietrich kissed him slowly and stroked down the inside of Troy's thigh. "Even now, you're the most beautiful man I've ever seen."

Troy flushed at the praise. He always liked being told that he had done well and it made him chase Dietrich's lips a little more. He wrapped his hands around the German captain - _his_ German Captain - and traced the hard, strong muscles that rippled under his skin. Dietrich seemed to enjoy that. He pressed a kiss to the inside of Troy's thigh, his stubble scratching just enough to feel good. Nightingale cleared his throat. He elbowed Dietrich aside before kissing him softly. He cupped Troy's face, his own eyes soft and a little sad. Troy kissed his hand just as eagerly in the hopes of getting this moving. To be crass about it, his pipes were backed up and what they had been doing had only made it worse.

"Have you ever done this before?" Nightingale asked.

"Well..." Troy trailed off and tried to think. It was hard with Dietrich kissing his belly, but Troy figured he would manage. "I had a girlfriend once who tried to suck my cock once, but then the air raid siren hit and we were getting bombed out. And before - with the ranch, didn't have time for that. And in that town, this was the kinda thing that got you thrown in jail or lynched."

Nightingale frowned. "Hauptmann, perhaps we should take this a little slower. I... I wasn't given this chance before and I know how much this can hurt, so... Don't push him, I think that's what I'm asking."

Troy rolled his eyes and pushed Dietrich's head back to where he was kissing. His cock was enjoying this even if parts of him weren't. Dietrich's lips and tongue felt so good against his overheated skin and it was easy just to hold Nightingale and ground himself. This was different from kissing Laura - this was everything he had ever wanted, all wrapped up into one big ball. The shiny bow on top would be actually completing whatever it was on Dietrich's mind, but Troy was willing to take baby steps. If this was what it was like to sleep with a man, then Troy wanted to do it much more often. It just felt good and the pleasure that came from the kisses pooled at the base of his spine.

Dietrich kissed him gently by the base of his cock. There was a question in those dark eyes and Troy got the feeling that he didn't often do things like this. That was okay - Troy hadn't ever felt what was about to happen, so he figured that he had no room to critique anything that was about to happen. Dietrich stroked Troy's thigh before taking the tip of his cock into his mouth. Troy gasped softly. He tried to roll his hips on instinct, but Nightingale held him down. He kissed Troy, distracting him from the hot wetness that wrapped around his cock. Dietrich did something that made Troy cry out. He tried to move, to do anything, but Nightingale's weight anchored him to the bed.

Troy didn't think for a little bit. All he did was feel - feel the pleasure that snaked around him, the touches that anchored him to reality. He seemed to float there for the longest time and drift in a place where everything felt good. Troy knew he wasn't going to last very long and he tried to hold it off, but it was a losing fight and he cried out. He scratched at Dietrich's shoulders when that came over him. He sighed softly and reached out to whoever would touch him. He needed that gentle touch, needed to know that someone cared for him.

"That felt good," Troy whispered. "Thanks."

Dietrich rolled his eyes as he pressed Troy against him. "You're welcome, I guess."

Troy smiled and kissed the tip of his nose. "Think you could get us something to eat? I'm hungry again."

Dietrich sighed and stroked through Troy's hair. "Fine. I'll see if there's a soup or something in the mess hall. I suppose it is a good thing that you're eating again - the last thing I want is for you to starve."

Troy smiled and held Nightingale's hand. He liked this, liked knowing that he was safe and cared for. He wasn't sick enough to take off into the desert like he wanted too, but having a nice bed and pleasant company was a nice substitute. Besides, Troy liked how Nightingale felt in his arms. He wondered who the man had been before all of this and how he had learned to sing. It would also be nice to know how Beckman would up with Nightingale, but that was another question for another time. Besides, he felt nice right now and the last thing he wanted to do was ruin the happy glow. There was plenty of time to come down from this pleasure induced high.

Nightingale kissed him softly. "You really like him, huh?"

"Yeah." Troy smiled a little. "He's a good man. I trust him more than I should."

Nightingale rolled his eyes. "It's good you trust him, then, because I sure don't."


	15. Chapter 15

Dietrich wished he could stay there forever, but he had meetings to attend in the morning and generals to kiss up too. His men needed food and supplies. Dietrich had to play the game even if he felt that it would drive him mad. So he just plastered a smile over his face, got up when it was still dark out, washed himself as quietly as he could, and slipped down to the mess hall for his breakfast. At this hour of the morning, all that was available happened to be a pot of oats steamed over milk and lentils boiled with honey. It was nothing fancy and no meat like he would have liked, but it was good food and Dietrich didn't have to pay for it. He simply took his tray, selected a bowl and some coffee, and sat down at the battered wooden table.

A blonde man trying to balance crutches and a tray cleared his throat. "Mind if I sit here?"

"Nope." Dietrich smiled to himself as he used one of Troy's words. "Please, sit down. Let me help you with that tray."

"Thank you." The stranger settled himself down after Dietrich set the tray on the table and neatly folded his crutches under the table. "The name is Colonel Julius Deutsch. Wehrmacht. I was wounded quite badly during a training exercise - some dunderhead mixed dummy and live ammunition back at headquarters. We never did figure out who did it, but I have my suspicions." Deutsch leaned over and sipped coffee from his battered mug. "This is a good brew, by the way. My compliments to the chef."

"I'll have to tell her in Arabic," Dietrich replied. "It's... not bad food if you're hungry. I used to be involved in desert patrols and then I, too, was wounded." He paused and eyed the way Deutsch carried himself. "Are you here for the big meeting? I've heard that things in Germany were getting a little too dangerous such meetings - too many bombings, too many spies. So that's why they're coming here."

Deutsch rolled his eyes as he tucked into his breakfast. He was a tall man, broad shouldered in a handsome way, and he had eyes like a distant thunderstorm. His dirty blonde hair was greying a little at the temples and his skin was covered in scars. His hands, too, were rough and calloused, like he was used to holding a gun rather than crutches. If things had been different, Dietrich might have invited this man to his quarters for tea and a little polite conversation. But Deutsch looked like he was injured and he hunched himself over rather strangely. In fact, it looked like one of his sleeves was empty. Dietrich opened his mouth to ask how Deutsch could have carried his tray and the crutches without two arms, but a sharp piece of paper poked his thigh.

Dietrich grabbed it. He glanced around to ensure that no one was watching him before he neatly unfolded the paper and casually read it as he drank his coffee. What he saw nearly made him double over and choke on his drink. Dietrich just barely stopped himself from doing so and he glanced at the paper and the very proper looking German man casually enjoying his breakfast beside him. Deutsch didn't look like a spy. In fact, if Dietrich was pressed, he would have said that Deutsch was an SS man with the way he carried himself. And to think that Dietrich was looking at a spy for the Allies... Dietrich didn't know if he needed to hug the man and kiss him on both cheeks or go running for the Gestapo.

"Colonel Beckman is going to kill you," Dietrich casually said.

"I'm aware." Deutsch looked around. "However, I lost my commission because of an injury and I'm very sure that my SIC tried to murder me when I was supposed to be sedated. Such things tend to make you doubt the German cause."

"So why are you here?" Dietrich asked.

Deutsch smiled. "To kidnap General von Kaplowe and take him to England. He's decided that he's going to defect and the Gestapo have followed him all the way to Libya."

"No offense, but how is a cripple going to kidnap a general?" Dietrich asked. His heart raced as he considered what he was doing. This was enough to get him hung or tortured to death, yet he didn't find that he was scared. Perhaps Troy had already primed the pump for this foolishness. "You don't look like youcould handle a gun, much less rope and chloroform."

Deutsch laughed and shook his head. "It's all been arranged back in Germany. I come here, make it look like his car was bombed, and he gets slipped off to England. It's a very slick operation, by the way. I know people who can make you disappear without killing you, so if you ever need my service..."

He trailed off and Dietrich understood what he was saying. He wondered why Deutsch trusted him so much or if it was that widely known that he only stayed in the army because Rommel happened to be both related too and liked him. Dietrich stabbed at his oats. The last thing he wanted to do was get tangled up in some wild plot to do who knew what. The Gestapo knew all about those plots nearly as soon as they were hatched. They just gave the plotters enough rope to hang themselves and then swooped down to kill anyone who happened to get involved. Dietrich had heard that the Gestapo trailed one plot all the way back to a man who just knew a plotter in school and hung him, too.

It was enough to make a man start to doubt the cause he believed in, at least a little. Dietrich was very sure that Deutsch had gone through something quite similar.

"I'm not going to tell the Gestapo about your plot," Dietrich began, "but - "

"If you told, you would find out just how good I am with a gun," Deutsch replied. He smiled softly and got up. "Will you walk me to the meeting, Herr Hauptmann? I'm not quite sure of the way."

Dietrich swallowed. The way he saw it, he didn't have that much of a choice. The Underground, it seemed, was just as bloodthirsty as the German Army.


End file.
